


In the end, everything collides

by flannelcastiel



Series: Unbelievers [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Case Fic, Destiel - Freeform, Domestic, Domestic Dean, Fuck Up!Dean, Human Castiel, Librarian Castiel, M/M, Season/Series 01, Supernatural Elements, mentions of Sam/Jess - Freeform, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 08:58:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flannelcastiel/pseuds/flannelcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a string of suicides in Lastly, Kentucky, Dean Winchester encounters a librarian who is more knowledgable about the supernatural world than the average small-town bookworm. Between ghostly crises and faulty research, Dean starts to have <i>feelings</i>, and that might be the most terrifying thing that's happened to him in a long time.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the end, everything collides

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrandiChampane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandiChampane/gifts).



> I was originally writing this fic for the Deancas Exchange, but since that was canceled, I decided to take a new spin on it. The end leaves it open for a sequel, for which I have not written a word for. School and work are pretty demanding at the moment.  
> Dean and Castiel are roughly the same age fyi.
> 
> SPOILERY DISCLAIMER: No happy ending.

When doing a case, Dean’s least favorite place to go is Kentucky.

Half the state is in what the locals call the Ohio Valley, which is essentially a bowl—a bowl of pollen, which does not agree with Dean’s hypersensitive allergies. But when Dad says jump, Dean’s gotta ask how high. There’s no passing a case over because Dean’s got a stuffy nose.

But when he finally rolls of the interstate into Lastly, this little town half-urbanized town, Dean’s first priority is to find a pharmacy. He sniffs and wipes his nose on the sleeve of his jacket; to the right he sees a Walgreens in the distanced. Overpriced shit hole, that’s what it is. He turns left instead, following a line of cars past a Cracker Barrel and a gas station. He finds relief when he sees a brown, crusty looking Rite Aid sign in a shopping center and turns in.

The average ghost probably has more life in it than this old shopping center. It looks like it once had a movie theater, old titles plastered on the brick exterior, but too crumbled to actually read. Next to it, a Mexican restaurant that stands out like a sore, infected thumb with its mustard paint and tinsel decorations (it’s not even friggin’ Christmas yet, and Dean reads a sign in the window that says Feliz Navidad). Then a few empty stores, beyond recognition of their formal status, until Dean’s eyes lay upon the old Rite Aid.

The inside is much cleaner than the outside, which is helpful because Dean wants to get out of there. It’s better to fly under the radar in small towns, and Dean’s well aware that there’s something about him that screams drifter. From the Impala to his worn leather jacket, both courtesy of John Winchester, he’s not a ‘plant my roots and grow’ kind of guy. But sometimes locals grow suspicious of travelers, and in an unknown place with its fair share of Confederate flags and John Deer paraphernalia, Dean’d rather play it safe than draw unwanted attention.

His shopping basket is full of the usual first aid kit stuff—he doesn’t know what he’s working with, though he thinks it’s a haunting of some sort. Dozens of people in a block radius of a renowned ‘haunted house’ have been killing themselves, all by noose. Whatever he’s dealing with it’s gotta violent streak. Dean has gauze and hydrogen peroxide, and Tylenol for any post-hunt aches. Then, for his itchy eyes and runny nose, some allergy pills and nasal saline. Nothing puts a damper on a hunt more than a bloody nose—sometimes blood draws the little fuckers to him like sharks.

The cashier girl looks like she’s in her late teens, too young for Dean to make a pass at. But she’s cute with dimples, and Dean finds himself smiling at her just because she’s got a look about her: young and hopeful and free. She reminds him of Sam. As she scans his items, he tries not to think of the last time he saw his brother, when he left for Stanford. In his weakest moments, when he was too drunk to stay angry, he’d call his brother and tell him that he understands. All in all, he wants Sam to have whatever he wants. Dean just wishes that Sam’s wants didn’t go against what Dean needs: his brother.

He contemplates giving Sam a call—a real call—but the thought is smothered by a violent sneeze. The girl offers him a tissue, which he gladly takes to clean his soiled hands. Real attractive, Dean. Real attractive.

—

Once Dean checks into the Best Western on the other side of town, under the alias Hans Olov, he settles in. It’s one of the nicer hotels he’s stayed at in a while, but there aren’t many options in this town surprisingly. Despite the fact it’s pretty rugged in some parts, many of the locals drive nice cars. It’s a nice town, which is something he isn’t accustomed to. He would complain about staying in a hundred-buck-per-night hotel, except that it wasn’t his money he was spending.

He’s been driving for a while, and the allergy medicine really took a toll on his resolve to stay awake and begin research. Dean contemplates getting out his laptop, but his resolve wavers and he finds himself crawling into the comfortable full size bed. He sprawls out, letting the comforter envelop him as he goes to sleep to the soft hum of the air conditioning unit.

—

The first order of business is to go to the scene of the crime. It’s only a coincidence that there happened to be another ‘suicide’ the night Dean arrives. Luckily he did decide to don his suite, just in case. This makes four, Dean notes, and the only pattern seems to be shopkeepers on Main Street of the town’s historical district. This time, it’s a craft store. Dean parks the Impala a block away and strides toward the line of yellow police tape, badge in hand.

A local officer, who bears more resemblance to a mall security guard than a law enforcement officer, attempts to stop Dean as he slips under the tape, but the badge takes him off guard.

“Agent Greer, FBI,” Dean says, allowing the officer a brief glance at his badge, but not enough time to see any marks of forgery, and then tucking it inside his suit jacket.

“What does the FBI want anything to do with a suicide?”

The lies come out fluidly, well rehearsed. “Passing through on my way back from that serial killer case in Cleveland, and was advised that these suicides might be foul play. Just brushing over what you fine officers have collected.” Dean smiles. “Nine out of ten times, it’s nothing, but you know how the guys upstairs are.”

Dean playing down his presence puts the officer at ease, and he is even escorted into the corner shop where the suicide took place.

The inside of the store looks incredibly neat. Canvases are stacked against one wall, pressed corner-to-corner in the neatest of rows. A vestibule sits in the center of the store, holding what seems to be thousands of different colored pens and markers, probably of a higher grade based on their high price tags. But it’s so neat that Dean does a double take when he sees the blood drizzling onto the cash register, and the stout woman dangling from above.

“Missy Barnes, sixty-seven,” the officer tells him. “Nicest lady I ever knew, down in these parts.”

“Cause of death?” Dean asks, though he knows the answer.

“As far as the coroner can tell—we still need to do another sweep of the scene before…we can take her down—asphyxiation. Just like the others.”

“And you don’t think the pattern is suspicious?”

The officer shrugs. “Nobody ever is killed around here. We theorize maybe some kinda suicide pact, because they were all friends.”

Dean cocks his head. “Were they?”

He nods. “They were all part of the local small business owner association. Plus, they all grew up in town and lived here all their lives.”

“Thank you Officer,” Dean glances down at the name on his badge, “Townsend. If your people come across anything…unusual, here’s my card. I am just going to do a once-over of the scene and then be on my way.”

He nods. “Will do, Agent Greer. Our forensic guy should be here in ten, so you got until then to look it over.” He exits the shop, taking the photographer with him.

Dean pulls at the knot of his tie. The smell of blood still makes him uneasy, though he will always grit and bear it before breathing a word of complaint. He walks around the pool of blood, which seems to have come from just her nose and eyes and ears. Not the weirdest thing Dean’s seen, but something he tucks away in his mind. It looks like she jumped from the counter where the register sits, and then snapped her neck with the weight of gravity. But this woman is not slight, nor is she young, which raises a question of how she got on the counter. There is no chair or stool, just the counter and the floor. She did not get up there without help—or without force.

Dean makes sure he is alone one more time before breaking out the EMF. Immediately after he flips on the switch, it goes nuts and the speakers crackle as red LED lights dance on the remote. He turns it off. Definitely ghosts.

She is wearing a fall sweater with a pumpkin embroidered on the front. But one sleeve looks like it’s singed slightly. Dean pulls it up and notes the bruising—almost in the shape of a handprint.

He sighs and steps back, looking around briefly once again. Aside from the crime scene itself, Dean only sees one pigment of disorganization. A photograph on the wall, crooked. Dean steps over and pushes the frame, straightening it. It falls back down, as if the frame was heavier on one side than the other. Dean gives it an extra push until the weight is balanced. It’s then he realizes it’s actually an old photograph. He pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of it, wondering if the crooked picture frame could be of interest to whatever was haunting this street and killing the shop owners.

—

He visits the other three crime scenes. One was at the shop across the street, an old motel converted into an ice cream shop. Margaret Miles, fifty-seven, was found hanging in the back freezer. The noose was still there, cut and coated with ice. The next was at pub just two stores down from the craft shop. Apparently, back in the day, it was a dance studio, but it had been remodeled. The owner was Joseph Bailey, seventy, and he was found hanging in the bar. They had cleaned up the crime scene, however, because the pub wanted to resume business. There wasn’t much to see there. The third supposed-suicide happened to be in a sloppily kept bookstore. Lolita Lopez is the youngest out of all of them—forty-nine—and was apparently discovered hanging right in the shop window one morning.

Only two factors bound them all together: the fact they were all shop owners on Main Street, and they were all part of this small business owner association. Dean goes to the courthouse just down the street and acquires a folder containing every member of this association. On Main Street, there is only one other member: Alana Barnett, fifty-four, and the owner of a shoe shop next door to the old hotel.

It’s a place to start. He parks the Impala right in front, still dressed in his business attire, and walks in the store. An older woman, who is most likely none other than Alana Barnett herself, smiles widely at his entrance, which is also marked by an obnoxious ring of bells.

“You must be the Federal agent.”

“I must be,” Dean says with a smirk. He shows her his badge and tucks it away. “What gave me away? The suit?”

She nods. “I always pictured that if I met a Federal agent, he’d be smarmy and more like a used cars salesman. You are a fine looking young man.”

“Why thank you,” Dean says, chuckling. “I take it you are Alana Barnett?”

“The one and only.”

“Then I was wondering if you could answer a few questions.”

—

Mrs. Barnett was anything but helpful. She was too concerned with flattery, telling Dean that he’s got more freckles on him than she’s seen on a young man in years. Oh, and something about his eyes being the color of mistletoe. Not creepy at all.

He left there empty-handed and with no more leads about the haunting. His next stop is the library, which he finds out is located just behind the Rite Aid. And it’s a huge library, with decorative shrubs and a courtyard with a fountain. So maybe this town funneled all its tax dollars into a state of the art library, leaving potholes unfilled and eyesores like the Mexican restaurant and the movie theater.

Dean decides to shed his suit jacket and tie, folding them neatly and storing them back in the trunk. He keeps his gun tucked in the ankle holster under his dress pants for safekeeping—though he doesn’t expect trouble at the library.

He pushes through the doors, shrugging off the fall chill that lingers on his skin. It’s too dark, he notes, and he turns around to look for a placard on the doors indicating the library’s hours. Shit, well, the library closes in about five minutes. But he doesn’t see anyone telling him to leave, so he decides to take a sharp turn down an aisle.

He finds the local history shelf and runs his fingers over the spines. He pulls out a few, thumbs through the pages briefly to look for any tragic event that would cause a ghost to linger. Most of the stories weren’t isolated to Lastly, but spread across the county. He does find a book with some ghost stories, which he hopes will hold some promise—but it speaks of harmless shadows and a supposed recording of a ‘ghost’ whispering ‘save the cat’ into a tape recorder. Dean shakes his head; these people see ghosts in the wrong places.

“The library is closed,” Dean hears from his side, and he gives a short pause before looking up from the book.

He turns his head slowly, allowing a coy smirk to cross his lips. “The doors were open.”

The man talking to him looks beyond annoyed as he strides toward Dean. The first thing Dean notices, right after that constipated expression, is his eyes. They are vivid and solid, almost like steel except they’re blue. His fascination is short-lived when the man squints at him.

“They aren’t anymore. The hours are clearly written on the outer doors.”

Dean sighs and shuts his book. “Listen,” he says, retrieving his badge from his pocket. “I am with—”

“I know who you are, Agent Greer,” the man cuts in impatiently. “A badge does not entitle you to intrude a business after hours, unless you have a court order.”

“This is a public library,” Dean snaps, becoming more annoyed the more he hears this guy speak. “Property of the government.” He points to himself. “Employee of the government.”

“The Federal government,” the man counters. “This library is paid for and maintained by state taxes.”

Dean opens his lips, but no reply fumbles out. Heat brushes his cheeks, an indication of anger but also embarrassment.

The man continues to watch him, curiously, and it gives Dean the creeps. “But, you’re here about the murders.”

“Murders?” Dean repeats, cocking a brow. “Word on the street is they’re all suicides.”

“If they were, you would not be here.”

Dean rolls his wrist at his side, turning the book and patting it against his thigh. It’s a nervous gesture, twisting his wrists like he’s getting ready for a fight. This guy obviously has a connection, either to the victims or the events. Maybe he is more knowledgeable than the average, over-helpful, intrusive librarian. “What’s your name?” he asks.

“Castiel Collins,” he answers without missing a beat. “So what have you gathered from your investigation, Agent Greer?”

Dean can play this desperate game. He slots the book in his hand back in the shelf, subtly noticing the librarian’s eyes watching him. Probably obsessing over whether Dean is stowing the book in its original place. “I looked over the scene of Miss Barnes’ this morning. The evidence suggests a suicide, but I found bruising on her arm. Someone forced her to do something.”

“Something,” he replies under his breath. He shakes his head once, firmly. “Was the scene… out of sorts?”

“Actually, it was pristine.” Dean’s eyebrows furrow. “What do you mean, something?” he fishes. “Like an…animal?”

He shifts uncomfortably, but his eyes remain staring at Dean’s face. “I am afraid that you would pull strings, to have me institutionalized, if I told you,” Castiel says quietly, and points to the shelf, where Dean had just slid the book away. He reaches right into Dean’s personal space to pull out the book, his slender fingers wrapping around the spine as he tugs it from the tight space. He barely misses Dean’s side as he pulls the book back to himself.

He flips it open, pages turning easily under his fingers. “The stories this town tells to explain the unexplainable are quaint at best.” He turns to one page and pivots to show Dean. There are two pictures juxtaposed, both of the old hotel on Main Street. The one on the left is in black and white, old cars slanted into the parking spaces out front, the vivid and bold sign reading Crossroads Inn. The photograph on the right depicts the same hotel, minus the sign and the old cars, with peeled paint and worn bricks. Though, what he did not notice before is the silhouette of a rocking horse in both small windows near the roof, which is presumably the attic.

Dean touches the horse in the colored picture. He quickly skims the caption, which tells a tale of the hotel clerk’s sickly daughter hiding away in the attic and playing with toys. She died young, and to this day the rocking horse is visible from street level, and can even be seen swaying in the night. “The ghost stories in this book… these people don’t really know what’s in the dark.”

“They don’t,” Castiel agrees. Their eyes meet, a silent connection forming that makes Dean’s skin crawl. Rarely does he come to a town where there is any indication of…receptiveness.

“My specialty is kinda shedding light on the dark,” Dean teases, trying to get him to open up. Castiel does, but the smile he offers is something short of coy.

“I thought your specialty was investigation, Agent Greer.”

“Can’t I do both at the same time?” Dean gesticulates, pressing a hand to his chest, before extending his hand outward. “By the way, just call me Dean.”

Castiel’s brow arches questionably, but he takes Dean’s hand. “Fair enough. If you return tomorrow during hours, preferably with a latte, I’ll tell you what I know.”

“Hold on just a minute—s”

“I’ll make it worth your while.” He pauses, eyes softening as his head tilts slightly. Dean wants to kick himself when he takes special note of how Castiel’s lips are dry and puckered and pink under the library fluorescents. “Dean.”

—

The county is damp. There are no bars, no liquor stores, and neither of the two grocery stores in town carries alcohol. The only option for getting a tall cold one is driving down to the Applebees close to the interstate. Compared to the dives Dean’s been to in his life, small town, family-friendly chain restaurant should not be on his shit list. But it’s the friendliness of it all that makes Dean cringe, retreating to the back corner of the bar area.

His only consolation was that they actually carried his off-the-shelf brand of beer—well, not his only consolation. The bartender is wearing a low cut top, barely revealing the wings of what looks like could be a hummingbird. He asks her about it, which earns him a good deal of mutual flirtation, and a correction. It’s actually a mockingbird. The backstory brushes over his mind as he truly focuses on the best way to ask her back to his hotel room.

She declines, twice, which stings Dean’s ego. But no means no so he tips her nicely and gets an order of nachos to go, and goes back to his hotel room.

He does not expect to sleep soundly two nights in a row.

—

He arrives at the library early the next morning with two lattes and a box of donuts, dressed down but still donning a pressed white button up. His sleeves are rolled up, though, revealing the small tattoo that wraps around his right forearm. It’s not unlike the anti-possession tattoo on his chest; this one, however, bears latin inscription for an exorcism. Ever since he discovered that demons exist for real he decided it’s better to get ‘em out of whatever meat suit they’re in before they can force-boil the brain.

Its utility is essential, but he also made sure it was attractive. Women often asked of its meaning, to which Dean would reply that it was an ancient latin poem. He would then recite bullshit off the top of his head, which usually earned him a good lay.

The doors to the library are locked when Dean walks up and he glances to his watch, careful not to spill the lattes or drop the box of donuts as he weaves his head around to see the digital reading. It’s nearly eight, which is when the library opens. He sighs and kicks the glass door lightly with the toe of his shoe. It’s not like he has hands to knock. Not a minute passes when Castiel emerges from the dark interior and stands on the other side of the door. He peers through, and Dean thinks that the tinted windows make it difficult to see Dean. For good measure, he presses his face into the glass, his nose smashing flush. Castiel’s eyes roll and he unlocks the door.

“Can’t you learn to come during hours?” he asks Dean.

Before answering, Dean shoves one latte into Castiel’s hand, which frees his own to carry the box wedged between his bicep and side. He smiles and takes a long drink from his own cup. “Sounded like you wanted me here bright and early, so here I am.”

Castiel pauses, glancing down at his cup. Away from Dean. For some reason, Dean doesn’t like that his attention is so intense one minute, and wayward the next. He would almost prefer the unbreakable staring to the distractors. “Here you are.” He takes a sip of his latte and turns on his heel, waving for Dean to follow.

Through a door to what seems to be a private office, complete with a conference table, Castiel gesticulates for Dean to take a seat. On the table there are countless books and documents spread out. Behind it, a clipboard, not much unlike the one Dean uses to pin articles and maps to for his cases. Castiel has done just as much, but it’s neater; he indicates connections with thick red twine wound around thumb tacks—between pristine photographs and seemingly fresh-printed articles.

Dean doesn’t sit, he just lets his eyes graze across the compile information on display. It’s all local. Feature stories about the town mythology, ranging from the rocking horse to the supposed ghost on record—then, the stories grow more worrisome. Animals being found mutilated, and teenagers suspected of being the culprits. One teenager confesses, and claims that something influenced her. One article concludes drugs was behind the matter. The red twin indicates that the next event in this chain is a fire at a boutique, which seems to be the same building as the craft shop. And then, the murders begin, and each one is connected with white twine to other scattered articles and pictures. Subtle connections, not concrete.

“Pretty impressive,” Dean says, his voice surprisingly refusing to drip with any intended sarcasm. Perhaps because he was truly impressed.

“It’s incomplete.” Dean jumps when he realizes Castiel is standing right next to him. “There is one event from which all of this stems, I am positive.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks. “Enlighten me.”

Castiel smirks. “I will. But first, I need a reason to trust you.”

“Isn’t my badge reason enough?” Dean asks, voice firming. “I’m trying to help you people—“

“‘Us people’ do not require the assistance of a man with false identification. Nor a man who impersonates a Federal agent.”

“What are you talking about?” It’s difficult to hide his franticness.

“Oh, do you mean, how did I find out? Easy. Your badge said Elvis Greer, yet you insist I call you Dean.”

“Shit.”

Castiel chuckles. “I’m sure that the average small town hick is oblivious to anything but the lies you spew. You do put on a good performance, I’ll give you that.”

Dean shifts, setting his latte down so he can shove his hands in his pockets. He feels his keys brush against his fingers. He can feel his legs coiling, preparing to run. “Did you ask me here today to interrogate me? Or have you already reported me?”

“No,” Castiel replies, squinting in confusion. “Why would I report someone whom is of great societal value? It is clear that you and I are the only one who believes that supernatural forces are at play here.” He steps closer and presses an insistent hand against Dean’s shoulder. Dean feels himself relax, and his hand goes lax in his pocket. “I need your help.”

“But you want the truth,” Dean murmurs. Castiel’s silence is affirmation enough. “I’d say you can’t handle the truth, but.” He nods his head toward the cork board. “I think you can.”

—

It’s possibly the most in depth conversation has had about himself—his real self, not the facade he puts on for Dad and other hunters and, of course, all the people he has to convince he’s a cop or a fed—in his lifetime. As they sit across from each other at this table, Cas listens, to each line about his mom burning up in a house fire, for which a demon with yellow eyes is responsible. Dad’s been hunting that demon for years, but he’s just an apparition. If anything, he’s his father’s own personal demon, in the psychological sense. From that pure desire for revenge stemmed a lifetime of hunting, breeding his sons for the trade. And somehow Dean slips onto the topic of his brother, which is dangerous territory, but Cas hasn’t proven himself to be an untrustworthy—

When the fuck did he start thinking of him as Cas?

Castiel is beside himself once Dean shares his theories about this case in particular. Dean isn’t familiar enough with the local lore enough, but he knows that a vengeful spirit is behind the murders. And maybe the events Castiel has pinned on his cork board were precursors, before the spirit up and went completely homicidal. The fire could have even set it off, its survival instincts setting in. Whatever’s anchoring the spirit is located in the craft shop, Dean guesses.

“Before the murder of Missy Barnes, I thought that it might have been the ghost of the town’s first mayor,” Castiel explains. “There is a narrow alleyway next to the pub, if you recall. It is partially bricked over. That is because the mayor was walking down the thin stretch when a fireplace collapsed and crushed him to death.”

“Poor fuck,” Dean comments, wincing. “But what changed your mind?”

“Missy Barnes is the great-grand daughter of Alexandra Fields-Barnes.” Castiel reaches across the table, grabbing a book with a worn and cracked spine, and carefully flipping it to a bookmarked page. “She was the daughter of a French immigrant who was married off to a Civil War veteran. Union of course. It was a political marriage, one of great fanfare for the town. Basically royalty.”

“So bitter wife dies, kills her great-granddaughter. It’s a haunted Soap Opera.”

“She was quite more than bitter, I would say.” He closes the book and reaches for another, except this one is leather bound. Much like his dad’s journal. “Missy Barnes's grandmother, Alice, describes the lengths to which she was abused by her father. Her mother, too.” Castiel scans the page, and clears his throat. “‘Mother came back with coal smeared eyes and a bloodied lip, and she came to me and begged me to take up mop and broom, or Father would surely brand me too. I cried, but only long enough for Father’s hollering to come. I know better to cry in front of him.’”

Dean shakes his head. “Son of a bitch. How did Alexandra die?”

Cas shuts the journal, somber. “Suicide. They say she hung herself. I found the police report at the courthouse, and the details are minimal. Even for the era.”

“They covered it up. He finally killed her and he made it look like a suicide.”

“Precisely. Missy Barnes’ craft shop was a boutique before, and it belonged to Alexandra herself. It was a family business.”

Dean is pretty familiar with those. “But why would she kill her own grandkid? And why all those other people?”

“I found no connection between their families and the Barnes family. But the whole strip was owned by the Barnes, back in the day. It is possible that she, as the matriarch, feels a personal responsibility over all of her former property. If it’s not up to par with her standards, then—“

“She feels personally threatened, because she’s got in her ghost-head that if things aren’t perfect and clean, her husband’s gonna get her.”

“And her daughter,” Castiel agrees.

Dean whistles as his head churns in a slow shake. The next step, obviously, was to find her grave, burn the woman’s bones. And if he was right and there were some leftovers, he’d burn those too—

“Wait, Cas, do you have any family photos of the Barnes?” he asks suddenly, scooting to the edge of his seat. Wordlessly, Castiel’s eyebrows knit, but he shuffles through some books until his fingers are grasping at yet another worn, leather cover. “They are low quality, as they are scans from every photo at the abandoned estate—“

“Thanks.” Dean rips it from his fingers and thumbs through the pages. Black and white paints each page, along side a brief caption. He’s about fifty pages in, hyper aware of Cas’s eyes on his face but still focused on the task at hand, when he finds it. He lays the book on the table and points to the page.

“This picture is hanging in Missy Barnes’ craft shop. When I was there, it was tilted, disturbed. Everything else was untouched.”

“So spirits do cling to objects?” Castiel says slowly, his question sounding more like a request for verification than an actual inquiry.

“Yeah, all the time. Even painted portraits. Ghosts are ghosts ‘cause they cling to the past.”

“And photographs never change. They are infinite in livelihood—”

Dean smiles. “Until you burn ‘em up.”

A smile, fuller than Dean expected to see, presses on Cas’s dry lips as he shyly looks away. At that, Dean feels his cheeks burn and he clears his throat.

“Um, so, thanks,” Dean murmurs and goes to stand up. “You were a big help, man. Really.”

“Where are you going?”

“To burn the bitch’s bones, that’s what,” Dean says. What else was he gonna do?

“It is only—“ Castiel peers down at his wristwatch. “Twelve-thirty. The cemetery is in the middle of town, next to Dairy Queen in fact.”

Well damn. He would really have to wait until night—he was just really hoping the Barnes estate had some kind of private cemetery.

“Well, regardless, don’t you think I need to be getting out of your hair?”

“Well,” Cas replies slowly, pursing his lips in thought. “After long deliberation, I have decided that I enjoy you in my hair, Dean.” He leans forward, and even though he isn’t close—after all, they are separated by a whole friggin’ table—Dean can see the smallest of galaxies spinning in the sharp eyes gazing at him.

“Why’s that?” he croaks.

“You fascinate me. I know so little about you, though I have the distinct feeling that you’ve told me more about yourself than you have a numerous number of people.”

“It’s only ‘cause you caught me in my scheme,” Dean mumbles. It’s a great facade he’s putting on, masking the warmness in his face with a scowl. So what if he kinda spilled his guts to a stranger? He’s just a librarian in a small, meaningless town with a ghost that ain’t even that special.

“I didn’t ask you to talk about yourself, though. About your mother, your father.” Castiel continues to stare unabatedly. “You did that on your own accord.”

A defensive chord is struck, and Dean finds his arms across his chest as he stares Cas down. “Since I went Dr. Phil on your ass, what about your folks? They proud of you believing in ghosts and shit too?”

“My father disapproves of my proclivities, so I have not spoken to him for many a year,” Cas says emptily, and Dean almost wants to recoil and apologize. That word, though, hangs in the back of his mind: proclivities. “My mother—she’s the reason I believe.

“I grew up in the Pentecostal church, handling venomous snakes and speaking in tongues.  Though I did not think that one’s faith should be tested by the clout of one’s immune system, I never voiced my doubts. Excommunication is a dangerous thing when you are a young boy.”

Dean nods. He has doubted, too. Mostly when he was young. His father was ultimately the light in the dark, leading him toward this way of life. Like any normal kid, he wanted to do normal things, and John Winchester would not allow it. Instead he was given a shotgun and knives and taught how to lure women into bed and lie eloquently on credit card applications. He doubted, but figures that he never had a choice. Mom’s death would haunt him one way or another, and it’s not like he could ignore the fact that monsters do dwell in the darkness.

“When I was fourteen, my mother claimed to talk to angels. She said they were telling her things, like that she had a higher calling and she would serve God. What true believer in his or her right mind would turn down an offer to be a vessel of heaven?” Dean watches as his forehead hardens, lines of repression cracking as he goes on. “She accepted, though. Whatever the angel offered, she took, and the last thing she said to me was ‘Blessed be you, child of my host.’”

“Wow,” Dean breathes. This sounded insane; there are no such things as angels. Dean’s hard-pressed to believe there is a God up in the clouds—and if there is, he’s an asshole. “That’s…was she crazy?”

“I suspect she was schizophrenic. Only as an adult have I come to a conclusion. The church declared she had become possessed by a blasphemous demon claiming to be an angel.” His hands twist together.  “Regardless, my mother and her words inspired me to achieve my Master’s in Occult Studies.”

Dean does a double-take. “Wait—so you’re like, not just self-taught?” He thinks to his father, Bobby, struck by the need to bury themselves in the study of the occult because of the tragedies of their pasts. Castiel is very different. He’s bookish, with a clean white shirt buttoned up to his neck. It also gives him the appearance of being close-minded, which he is obviously not. Dean decides to quit judging Cas by his appearance.

“There is only so much a conservative-funded library can teach one about ghosts and monsters without county-wide blasphemy being declared,” he laughs dryly. “Most of what I know comes from outside reading, and then the resources I gained from one of my professors. He strongly believed, too.”

“I…it shocks me to think that there are civilians out here, not doing anything about that ghost.”

“For years, they live ignorant,” Castiel muses. “The disease of this town is ignorance.”

—

Dean hadn’t even realized he missed Halloween until he’s driving down Main Street. There are unlit jack-o-lanterns lining the windows of the shops, but he sees them being removed in several instances. The orange and black decorations—fake spiderwebs and blow up witches—are being taken down as well. The holidays, be they small or large, pass by without any notice given from Dean. He really doesn’t care, because when he remembers he finds himself wondering what Sam’s doing. Maybe he’s at some Halloween party on campus. In those seldom phone calls, he’s heard about his cute girlfriend. Jess, he recalls numbly. Maybe she puts on a sexy little outfit for him, and maybe Sam wears one to match. Dean smiles briefly at the thought of Sam donning a doctor’s lab coat and Jess hanging on his elbow in a skimpy nurses outfit. Hell, he doesn’t even know what she looks like, but if Sam’s got her then she must be a knockout.

“You’re smiling,” he hears from beside him. Of course the statement causes the smile to immediately fall away, replaced by one that’s much less genuine. He turns to look at Cas.

“Your town is so adorable,” he replies shortly.

Cas purses his lips, recognizes his mocking tone. From his peripheral vision, Dean is certain he spots a stare that signifies a resounding ‘fuck you’. Then he turns to look straight ahead.

“The cemetery is right down there,” Cas says, pointing down the windshield. Just past the more historical segment of town is a plain Dairy Queen, lights yellowed with age and placard letters cracked and crooked. On the other side is that cemetery.

“You’re staying in the car, got it?” Dean says when he drives up the gravel entrance. He swears he sees Castiel role his eyes in reply. “Don’t. Just ‘cause you know what’s going on, and damn you know a lot, don’t mean I’m gonna let—“

“Me? help?” he cuts Dean off. “Is that it, then, Dean? You prefer to go ‘solo’?”

Despite himself, Dean chuckles at Castiel’s use of air quotes. “Yeah, I do. I only ever hunted with my dad and brother. Not crazy about strangers.”

“Oh.” Castiel quietly retreats to his side of the bench seat. Dean hadn’t even realized how close he was sitting until the radiation of warmth was gone. He shivers at the thought, though, and not from the sudden but subtle chill that goes up his spine.

“Not what I meant.” He feels guilty, for no reason. He knows Cas as well as any other schmuck on the streets—except they had the biggest friggin’ chick flick moment all of a few hours ago. Over coffee and donuts. “You’re just—you’re an innocent,” he tries, but it comes out sounding like he’s got some hero complex.

“I’m not a damsel in distress,” Cas tells him lowly. “I am capable and resourceful. When you came, you confirmed everything I have been trying to prove my whole life.” He turns his whole body to Dean, just as the Impala roles to a stop behind a mausoleum, hidden. He feels hidden too, in the shadow of the granite tomb. “You are… walking, living, breathing proof that I’m not insane like my mother.”

Dean’s tongue feels heavy. Cas is looking at him like he’s the only thing in the freaking universe, his blue gaze unending and unwavering.

He breaks the awkwardness by throwing open his door and shouting a “come on” over his shoulder.

Cas takes up a shovel and helps to dig the hole, without hesitation. Dean is nearly frightened by the emptiness in those blue eyes when he empties the final drops of lighter fluid over the soiled, powdery bones at the bottom. Dean lights a match, and it’s the shreds of decayed satin and lace that catch first. Then the embers become inflamed, waning energy pulsing around them. It’s a sensation that is hard to describe, when the spirits are put to rest. Like rain on a growing fire. It protests at the smothering, but then it goes flat and the coals just kindle there until they’re as cold as the ground around them. Dean feels that, after a few minutes of watching the bones burn to nothing.

“Goodbye, Alexandra,” Cas tells the nothingness, which is all redundant to Dean.

He makes no comment, but nods his head. Goodbye.

—

His duffle is packed the next morning. Not that he had much in it; he never planned to stay in his hotel room that long. He makes sure to grab all the toiletries and mini shampoos he can, since that shit gets expensive. And the room wasn’t that cheap either. And then he squeezes one last hot shower in, because it’s rare to stay in a place with a steaming option.

Sweat rolls down his brow as he wraps a towel around his waist. The afterglow is interrupted by the shrilling of his phone—the one assigned to his FBI card. He jogs across the room and flips it open, not recognizing the number. “Agent Greer.”

It’s Officer Townsend, with a courtesy call from the Lastly Police Department, informing him that there has been another murder.

“Shit,” he says, before thanking the officer and informing him that he’d be to the crime scene shortly. He rips the towel of his waist, ruffles his hair, and then tiredly pulling his suit out of his duffle.

He arrives there just before the coroner moves to detach the body from the ceiling. This time, it’s a clock repair shop, several stores down from the craft shop where the last murder took place. Dean doesn’t object, he knows that it’s a ghost—all the evidence points to it.

Just the wrong fucking ghost.

Dean runs a hand through his hair as some forensic guy cuts the rope and two other guys catch the body. Female, late sixties probably. Just another unfortunate store owner who decided to take up business in the wrong town. From the stockroom he sees Officer Townsend emerge, thumbs tucked in the belt loops of his pants.

“The vic of the day,” he says morosely to Dean when they make eye contact. “Juanita Jones, sixty-eight. Murder.”

Dean’s eyes widen at the one-liner. “So we’re not skipping to suicide now?”

“All of the others are being declared as homicides as we speak,” Officer Townsend says. “Ms. Jones had extensive bruising on her arms and face. Not self-inflicted.”

Now the freaking ghost has changed its M.O. and Dean’s head is spinning. He’d seen Cas’s research, listened to each train of thought and suspicion. There is no possibility that Dean could have researched this case any better than him. Yet, something is still obscured.

“Any other difference from the other vics? Scenes?” Dean inquires.

“No signs of forced entry, but there is a dislodged shelf—“ he points, and Dean’s eyes follow to a crooked shelf, from which several traditional clocks have slid to the floor, shattered shards of wood and glass now.

“Thank you officer,” Dean murmurs to himself. “I need to call Home Office and report these new details.” He pulls his phone from the polyester-lined pocket of his cheap suit, and then heads for the door.

Most of the sidewalk is taped off. Observers and small-time reporters squeeze close, trying to get a better look. He does not like the attention—he prefers to blend in—so he ducks his head and goes along the side of the building until he finds an alleyway he can cut through. He stops when he hears something over the static noise of cars and people. His name—his real name.

He jerks around, seeing Cas squeezing close to the tape and waving. His hair is disheveled, button down wrinkled and…unbuttoned. Partially, anyways.

“Cas,” he breathes, before gathering the number of brain cells it takes to go over to him and lift the tape for him to pass through. “What’re you doing here?” Dean asks, but soon realizes it was a stupid question. Cas was the first person he wanted to call when he found out there was another murder, but he didn’t have the guy’s freaking number. Now he’s here, and Dean feels a cross of relief and excitement. The former scares him, while the latter confuses him.

“Dean, it’s not Alexandra,” he gasps, low voice hushed into a whisper.

“No shit,” Dean laughs dryly. “The ghost, it’s messy now. This one actually looked like a murder, from the bruising to some broken product.”

“Listen,” Castiel commands. “It’s Alice. Missy Barnes’s mother. I found a page in her diary, saying that it was she who discovered her mother’s body. And she assumed the role of the wife after Alexandra died.”

“So for all the same reasons, just transferred to Alice. And she killed her own daughter.”

“I learned that vengeful spirits have no discretion.”

The idea roles in his head, gears turning with more and more efficiency. He sees it in his mind, the spirit of Alice Barnes replicating that grief of her mother’s, which is multiplied by the abuse she experienced and the trauma of discovering her mother’s body and knowing it’s murder. Then she lives the rest of her young adult life, until marriage finds her, being kept by her father, forced to perform all these tasks which consumed years of her being. That has to drive one to insanity.

Dean nods. “Okay, so is she buried over in that cemetery too?”

“No,” Cas replies. “She was cremated.”

“Well fuck,” Dean mutters. That means there’s some piece of her DNA floating around. Unless—“That picture! Cas, she’s tied to the picture.”

Cas shuffles on his feet at the reminder. “In Missy Barnes’ shop?”

Dean nods wordlessly and turns from Cas, gazing down the street. The tape ends about thirty feet down, encasing the storefront of Missy Barnes’ craft store. He turns back to look, seeing that only the bystanders watch Dean now. No officers. “Come on,” he whispers, and strides down the sidewalk. Cas comes up to his side.

“The professor I told you about, the one who believed as we do,” Cas says breathlessly. “He said that many a time spirits seemingly became trapped in photographs because heirlooms were often embedded into the frame. Was the frame old?”

Dean thinks back, retrieving the memory of the room, the wall, and the frame. “Yeah,” he says. “It was fancy, with flakes of gold. What kind of heirlooms?”

“Jewelry, sometimes,” he says.

“Earrings?” Dean wonders, as they approach the storefront. He jiggles the doorknob; it’s locked—like he should be surprised. “Skin can get hung up on that shit.”

“Yes,” Cas says, standing a breath from Dean. Too close. He watches Dean with a raised brow as he reaches inside his jacket to pull out his wallet. “What are you doing?”

Dean flicks out a credit card between his fingers. “Letting myself in.”

He jiggles the credit card against the deadbolt. The lock is old enough that it only takes a few seconds for it to pop open. Dean smiles victoriously.

“You do this often,” Castiel murmurs.

Dean turns to him with a raised brow. “When you do what I do, you don’t get paid, alright? I need a few… off the cuff skills to survive.”

No further explanation was needed, as the door swung open and Dean walks through. For a moment Cas hesitates in the doorway. Dean smiles to himself, but doesn’t acknowledge Cas’s squeamishness to trespass.

Dean goes straight to the segment on the wall where the photograph was—or where it was supposed to be. It has fallen to the floor, the frame cracked and the old picture exposed to the air. Dean is tempted to just burn the whole damn thing. It is the easiest thing to do, he supposes, and pulls out his Zippo lighter.

He’s about to drop the flame when Cas’s fingers wrap around Dean’s wrist.

“Don’t,” he whispers to Dean. “Call me a—a bookworm, but this photograph is a piece of history.”

You’ve gotta be kidding me, Dean thought. “There’s a copy of it in that book,” he deadpans.

Cas sighs. “As a historian, I can assure you that is not the same. Can’t we just find the heirloom?”

“Shit, well we better make it fast. They can sense it, when you’re here to ga—you know.”

Without further communication, Castiel drops to the floor and begins to disassemble the the frame with careful fingers. He drags his fingers around the wood. His nails hitch on something. “Here,” Castiel murmurs. He flips up a compartment, and dust and wood carvings flow into the air, causing Cas to choke a little.

He holds an open palm up to Dean. Rusted and dirty, Dean can make it out—a locket.

“You think there’s hair—“

A force slams into Deans into Dean’s chest, spinning him through the air and pushing his shoulder into the wall. He hits another picture frame, glass breaking and cutting through his suit.

“Dean!” Cas calls out, and Dean opens his eyes just in time to see him being slammed back. His body skids and rolls across the floor, locket flying in the opposite direction. It’s in that moment that Dean’s aware that he’s no longer holding his lighter.

He curses. “Cas, you okay?” he calls out. No response. His entire body groans when he moves, picking his body up off the floor. He really does this shit too much.

There is a flicker of a body, a dark obstacle between him and Cas, and the locket which he saw slide under a display table. As the spirit manifests itself, he hears wailing.

“Alice,” he breathes, recognition burning through him. She is middle-aged, but is the same woman who stands between her mother and father in the family portrait. His ribs ache from being pounded into by the dark energy, and calling the ghost a son of a bitch or a motherfucker would probably be unproductive for his survival. Dean coughs, a little blood sprinkling on his lower lip. He has to do something to calm it, before he can gank it. “Your dad is dead—you don’t have to—you don’t have to keep doing this.”

She shrieks, her face twisting and contorting as she blinks directly in front of Dean. He squints and dives down. He has a vile of salt strapped to his ankle—

He is thrown against the wall again, but she pins Dean there this time. He stares past the ghost and sees that Cas is no longer laying where he was thrown a mere few seconds ago. His eyes dash frantically around, searching for that freaking librarian that he should not have brought with him. Dean’s mind pulses with a resounding stupid stupid stupid, self-deprecation weaved with an appalling amount of desperate worry.

A breath of relief is held back against his lips when he does see Cas. Before he can be grateful, he needs to find a way out of this mess. Judging by where Cas is, hidden beneath the display under which the locket should be, the plan is half-made.

The ghost continues to wail, and her words are slurred between each cry. Dean’s pretty sure she’s confusing him for her father. Maybe the attacks weren’t some sort of twisted vengeance—maybe they were simple confusion. Ghosts have typically been driven into insanity by whatever unfinished business that’s keeping them tied down.

Alice Barnes holds out a hand and makes a fist, her white translucent flesh cracking and ectoplasm dripping from them where one would usually see just a little blood. Dean feels his throat close, the pressure cutting off any air. He beats his limbs against the wall, the sound drawing Cas’s attention. But he’s trying to distract the ghost so he can find the freaking lighter and burn her spirit to smithereens. But he doesn’t even know where the lighter went, and he has no way of telling Cas that when he’s being choked to death.

The next cry the ghost lets out is enough to shatter glass—and oh, does it shatter. The windows burst out of the storefront, glass flying through the air. Some nicks Dean’s face and he would gasp if he could. It barely misses his eyes. When he looks back to Cas, he’s gone, and a wave of panic slashes through him. But Alice is still completely focused on him.

The energy holding him against the wall, holding his throat, wavers. Dean’s body slumps to the floor and he gasps for air as he clutches at his own throat. The ghost jerks around, her crying turning to petrified screaming. She is pissed.

“Rest in peace,” Dean hears over the hiss of flickering energy. He feels it, that same electricity bursting and contracting all at once. He sees Cas then, crumbled locks of hair caught on fire by what seems to be a—a wood burner? In any case, it was hot enough to catch the fragile piece of Alice Barnes on fire. The manifestation of her begins to fizzle, smoke, and fizzle away as her screams turn to nothing. And soon enough, she is just ash in Castiel’s palm.

Cas, whose chest rises and falls beneath his button up, meets Dean’s eyes. “I did it.”

“You sly, son of a bitch,” Dean says evenly, pausing for a few seconds before a smile breaks over his lips. He crosses the room and clasps two arms around the man’s thinner frame. He’s not a hugger, except when he is and he is so grateful to guy that he can’t resist just a little physical gratification—whoa he definitely needs to rephrase that thought, as it sends a jolt of unwanted energy through his stomach.

After he lets go, Cas is stunned, his permanently messy hair even more rustled than Dean remembers. “Should we get out of here?”

“Yeah,” Dean mutters, the moment shattered. If there was a moment. There was a moment, he decides, but he doesn’t know what that means.. “The cops are pretty close and that was a hell of a commotion.”

Cas nods. “There should be an alleyway entrance,” he tells Dean. Before moving, he lets the ashes sift through his fingers, going into the air and creating a cloud of dust. He seems to be saying a final farewell, silent, and then he turns to Dean. “It should be through here, if the blueprints are even vaguely similar to those at the library.”

—

After escaping the jaws of death and not being choked to death by a debutant ghost, Dean doesn’t want to leave. He splurges on himself, maxing out his current pseudo's credit card just to have his hotel room at the Best Western for another two weeks. In those two weeks, he gets too much room service and not enough sleep. He forgot how far behind he was on Dr. Sexy, until he stayed up three nights watching reruns. He laughs at the irony when he reaches the episode where Dr. Sexy comes out as being bisexual. Where was this episode when he was having his big I-like-vaginas-and-a-little-dick crisis of 2007? He’s past that, accepted his little gay disposition. It’s not like he’s looking for a civil union or anything—anyways, he still likes his women.

Usually when he spends a little extra time in a town, it’s because of said women. There’ve been a few, like Cassie, who’ve made him consider hanging up his dad’s leather coat and just dropping of the hunting radar. But mostly, he stays because there is plenty bounty to be harvested. Mostly at bars. But this fucking town is moist at best, and he’s not going to Applebees again.

He stays because it’s void. And sometimes it’s just nice to have a reprieve. Dad hasn’t called to check up on him—granted, he cracked the case at a much faster rate this time, mainly due to Cas. So he figures he’s got enough time to enjoy this, and then check back in later.

Cas. Even in passing thought, Dean finds himself retracing his steps back to the librarian who knows too much and yet not enough to almost get himself killed. If he only knew what it was like to hunt what was out there, and not just read about the fuckers out of books that are probably seventy-five percent bullshit.

But he still knows his stuff. Maybe more than Dean can remember, without looking in his Dad’s journal or calling Bobby. Neither of which he did on this entire case.

As Dean lays sprawled across his bed with a bag of potato chips and his phone cradled in his lap, he wonders if he looked up the number of the library, if Cas would answer. And if Cas answered, would he want to talk to Dean? Why does Dean even want to talk to him?

You fascinate me. The words cut through the static sound of the TV and his racing thoughts like they’re being whispered in his ear right now. That voice, dry and narrow like it’s reprimanding Dean. A firm reminder that Dean is something. It is also smooth and compelling, luring him, making his chest wane and wax into a new kind of warmth.

So Cas is interesting. That’s it.

Another day passes and Dean is still obsessing over Castiel, so he decides to hell with it. He’s going to the friggin’ library.

He dresses down, hoping that he doesn’t see any police officers along the way who will question why he’s still in town. The ‘suspect’ of the murders apparently fled town, according to the local papers. For all Dean knows, he’s the prime suspect. Most likely not, or he would have already been hunted down to his hotel room and arrested. Dean’s not a big fan of the whole arresting thing, so he hopes to dodge that bullet if he can. But he’s not gonna a dodge it this time by running away.

Dean is far past being ashamed of this burning need to see Cas. In fact, his daily jack-off in the shower this morning proved that Cas burns more than his thoughts. That messy hair, Dean decided, was most definitely perpetual sex hair. Yeah. And those big, dry lips were just asking for a kiss or two or three. He has no idea which way Cas swings, but he prays to the pie gods that he can just get one good kiss out of this mess.

Dean’s there just before closing time, hoping that the library is empty when he sees Cas, and the door can be locked behind him. The fantasy shifts, searing Dean in ways he needs to not be distracted by, so he pushes those thoughts away.

It’s dark inside, like the library is already closed. He hears shuffling of feet behind the shelves to his right.

“We’re about to close,” Cas calls, reaching the end of the aisle before he even sees Dean. He freezes in place, clutching the small stacks of books he’s holding to his chest. Dean swallows a little, tongue unconsciously dashing over his lips when he sees Cas in a plaid shirt today, blue and read. The sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms that are actually strong. Dean hadn’t even noticed before.

“Cas,” he says.

“Dean.” Castiel walks past him quickly, movements jerky, and sets the books down on a cart. He turns back with a blank expression. “What are you doing here?”

“I—” Dean stammers at first. He’s spent hours thinking of all the different things he could say, the ways he could just forget about words and sweep that little nerd off his feet and kiss him until he forgets his own name. But the words, the thoughts go frail and wither, and Dean stares down at his shoes. “Breakfast of Champions.”

Cas blinks. “Pardon?”

“The book,” Dean mutters in clarification. “Doing what I do, I can’t take my favorite books with me. Just wondering if you got it here…”

“You read Vonnegut,” Castiel says, and it sounds like disbelief. Dean feigns an offended expression.

“What? I don’t look smart enough to you?”

“No! It’s just—Vonnegut’s work is very complex. Not that you are simpleminded, but you give the impression of a superficial, lifestyle. And not that it’s a bad thing—“

“Hey,” Dean cuts him off before he can dig that insulting hole even deeper. He even smiles about it. “Don’t sweat it. I’m a complex guy—I read intelligent things and know a lot of shit. I’m not scholarly, but I’m not ignorant.”

“I know you aren’t,” Castiel says quietly, bowing his head. “I will find the book for you.”

Dean opens his mouth, perhaps to admit that wasn’t his intention for coming. But the words fall short. They just hang there, taunting him, on the tip of his tongue.

—

He goes to the library again. And again. And again.

Basically every day for the next week.

The cold sets in fast upon the little town carved into the middle of nowhere, which gives Dean all the more reason to bring a couple coffees and a dozen donuts down to the library. He usually doesn’t even speak to Cas, he just sets the drink and food on the front counter. Dean then recedes down an aisle to where he’s found an enormous chair fitting of a freaking king. And it’s there he folds his legs over the armrest and just…reads.

He reads extremely fast and finds the stack of finished books beside him growing tall enough to make a table. He ends up using a copy of a book on The History of Human Copulation—an interesting, short read—as a coaster for his coffee.

Dean only reads for two reasons. One, to find things out. Usually he leaves the research for his dad or Bobby. After all, he’s just feet on the ground, a blunt instrument raised to gank ghosts and monsters. No one’s really cared that in high school he got tested (shortly before he dropped out) and his IQ is somewhere around 138. Or he could read Vonnegut and Austen and freaking loved The Odyssey in 10th grade. He was always meant to be what he is. Nothing more nothing less. Therefore, he was never expected to really research anything beyond investigating cases.

And the other reason Dean reads is to escape. Not necessarily for pleasure, but to get out of his own headspace. It was a pretty dark place at times.

On his little self-declared vacation in bum-fuck Kentucky, Dean has to say the pile of books beside this chair is the product of the latter. In the face of the strongest physical attraction he’s had in years and a shared hunting experience, Dean is avoiding Cas in exactly the wrong place. He keeps his nose in a book, hoping and dreading the moment Cas walks even down an aisle close to him. He wants his eyes to meet those of blue, but he doesn’t want to deal with the emotions bubbling beneath his skin. Cas helped him so much, more than Dean probably deserved with the fake badge and egotistical approach, and fucking and running was just…not how he wanted to end things. Regardless of whether they even even had sex—and Dean cannot think about that possibility too long without feeling a rush of heat between his legs like a freaking teenager—Dean will be leaving. And he doesn’t want leaving to be hard, either.

So why he continues to visit the library is beyond him. He’s just the kind of guy who asks for trouble, Dean supposes.

The fifth day is a Wednesday—the day before Thanksgiving, in fact. Dean has a carrier filled with hot chocolate today and a few homemade brownies the gas station was selling, and he goes to the front counter robotically to set them down. What he doesn’t expect to see is Castiel sitting behind him, a stamp frozen in his hand as he stares up.

“Hello Dean,” he says, a smile melting onto his features and warming Dean’s face.

He clears his throat and smiles back. “Hey…man,” he fumbles awkwardly, pushing the drink carrier toward him. “Hot cocoa?”

“Yes. Thank you.” Cas takes the cup and presses it to his lips, eyes closed. Dean’s mouth goes dry at the sighs and he unwraps a brownie and shoves it past his lips. A distraction.

Wordlessly, Dean begins to walk away, hands trapped around the length of his cup. The warmth seeps through the sleeve and into his palms, washing away that cold, nervous feeling that’s numbing his motions.

“Wait, Dean,” Cas calls from behind him. Dean pauses and shuts his eyes. Pull your shit together, he mouths before turning back around. Cas is standing now, palms pressed against the counter as he leans across. “I—I have a question.”

Dean’s mouth is getting drier and drier as the silence thickens. “Well…spit it out.”

“Why are you here?”

That wasn’t the question Dean expected. “Um, because it’s a public library.” He points to his chest. “I’m the public.”

Castiel’s brows pull together. “In the short time we’ve known each other, I have learned two things,” he says slowly. “One is that you do not make connections. You drift from town to town, never staying in one place for too long. You know how I know that?” He breathes, filling the silence with the intake of his own lungs. “Because the second thing I know about you, is that you save people, Dean.”

“You don’t know shit about me,” Dean replies indignantly, which he immediately regrets. In all honesty, Cas hit the nail right on the head. Dean knows these things about himself. He just doesn’t know why he’s violating his innate nature for this stupid town. Then comes a shot of guilt. He could leave, and be saving people. It’s what he’s been taught since the time he learned to ride a bike. Actually, he learned how to handle a shotgun before he ever placed two firm hands on bicycle handles.

“I don’t,” Cas agrees, still remaining even-toned and expressionless. “But I would like to.” An unexpected smile twitches on the corners of his mouth as he situates himself on the counter, swinging his legs to the other side. Why he didn’t just walk around the damned thing, Dean doesn’t know. Seeing the stretch of Cas’s khaki covered legs—Jesus, underneath they’ve gotta be all muscle—did things to Dean.

Dean clears his throat. “So—um, how are you gonna do that?”

“I may have lied before,” he admits. “I know three things about you. And the third is that you love to eat. And I actually base this off of pure observational evidence, considering you bring a box of donuts daily meant to hold twelve, and I only ever eat four.”

“Heh, yeah,” Dean laughs, rubbing his neck. “Love me some donuts.”

“So if I told you there would be donuts aplenty, would you have Thanksgiving dinner with me?”

Cas is standing a near stride away from him, most definitely disregarding any public notion of personal space. Dean can even smell a little chocolate rolling from his parted lips, full and cracked and somehow hopeful even though they are just straight. Or maybe it’s his eyes that make everything feel whimsical. Dean noticed they were blue before, but now he can finally see them up close and really see how the irises are like smudges of black paint on a crystalline canvas. The blue isn’t even quite blue, it’s how Dean pictures a perfect snow on the ground: flakes of white and blue layered and layered upon each other, so fragile yet so thick and moving.

“Yeah,” his lips say, a bare and ragged breath pushing the force behind the word; his mind actually had no say in the answer.

“Yes?” Cas tilts his head, requesting confirmation.

Dean reaffirms the weak word with a firm nod. “Yeah, I’d love to. I—yeah.” He hasn’t fumbled so much in his words since he was in tenth grade.

His awkwardness seems to be rewarded when a true smile graces those lips, and he closes his eyes. “Thank you, Dean.”

The last thing Dean expected to hear was ‘thank you’—is that even the normal thing to say? He shrugs it off, returns the smile. “So—you wouldn’t happen to have any legal books?”

—

Thanksgiving morning, about an hour before Dean is due to arrive at Cas’s address, he’s at Walmart looking for something to take to dinner. He’s had a formal Thanksgiving dinner (that he  can remember) all of twice in his life, but TV is pretty informative. You gotta bring some kind of dish as a thanks to the schmuck throwing the gig.

For the sake of the shopping ritual, Dean pushes a partly-rusted cart down aisles of food. He sees a lot of ingredients that, if he had a kitchen, he could use to make something. Namely a pie. He sighs at the shame of the matter, and decides that the best thing he could possibly bring is a pie. He finds the pastries, only to find out that the only flavor of pie left was peach rhubarb. Even he can’t stoop that low.

It’s about twenty minutes until he should be on Cas’s doorstep and Dean leaves his cart in the middle of the store, grabs a box of Little Debbies and a Busty Asian Beauty, and checks out. Pays in cash, because he’s not about to pull out another credit card, another alias. One per town is the rule.

As Dean pulls out of the parking lot, he lifts himself from the seat to pull the scratch of paper with a little address written on it in perfect print. Cas’s handwriting is a far cry from Dean’s chicken scrawl, at it makes him smile to think how school must have been a breeze when he had nice script to back up his pristine articulation.

Strict pavement turns to a rougher, unmanicured road that isn’t quite gravel. The yellow lines down the center are faded, shoulders crumbling away into the dead grass bordering both sides of the road. The Impala is wide, so he rides the center of the road when he’s sure there’s no upcoming traffic.

Woven between acres of hills and half-dead trees and cow farms is a little white house. It’s situated  behind a few thick pines, a driveway pulsing from the grass and hitting the main road just a few yards up. Dean slows and turns down it, bracing himself for the familiar roll of gravel and dry dirt. He smoothes the front of his shirt when he climbs out of the car. In an attempt to dress with a little more sophistication he wears a black button up with the same worn jeans he always wears.

Dean weighs the box of brownies in his hands while nerves flare within his chest. Cas was right before, he isn’t used to staying in any place long enough. Definitely not long enough to make connections, to actually spend holidays with people. The only holiday he’s ever taken advantage of in his four years on-and-off the road alone is Valentines Day. And they were usually spent in grimy bar bathrooms and most definitely not in the original spirit of the holiday.

Once at the front door, Dean raps his knuckles against the door. His heart pounds in his chest, anticipating the moment Cas opens the door. He fears that his tongue will get twisted and that this might as well be the most awkward dinner of his life. When the door does open, squeaking on its worn hinges, Dean takes a breath and solemnly exhales as Cas leans into the frame, dressed the same as he always does—except a blue tie that matches the color of his eyes cascades down his narrow chest. Dean’s eyes widen and close as an unfamiliar warmth draws down from the hard gulp in his throat to his feet as he stretches his toes inside his worn steeltoes.

A pleased, even excited, smile spreads on Cas’s lips as he looks Dean from head to toe slowly. Dean has an odd sensation run up his spine, like he’s being drunk in. “Hello Dean.”

Dean’s mouth clicks as he opens his mouth, partially due to dryness, but no words come out. He gropes for the box of Little Debbies tucked under his arms and shoves them in Cas’s direction instead. “Brownies are awesome,” he explains. Castiel looks at him with a tilted head before waving him inside.

As far as houses go, Cas’s is pretty normal. The walls are paneled, fitting of the era the house was built in.The walls are covered with paintings that Dean thinks are ugly, but compliments Cas on the lovely home nevertheless.

“Don’t flatter me,” he replies, turning to face Dean as he rolls his eyes. “The lady who cleans my house paints—awfully. But I always buy her paintings and it is quite suspicious if I don’t hang them up.”

Dean makes a face. “Ugh, that sucks man. I’m sorry but this sh—stuff is fugly. But that’s a nice thing of you to do.”

“Yeah,” Cas agrees, and it sounds like he’s holding back a laugh. “Well, here is the dining area. I did not make much, but I made a little of a lot.” He pauses, and Dean swears he sees Cas redden ever-so-slightly. “I’m not sure what you like.”

It’s a small, wooden table with four chairs—definitely not the banquet which makes up most TV Thanksgivings. And then the food is all piled in the center—a small turkey, potatoes, green bean casserole, and a box of Krispy Kremes. Dean’s mouth waters at the sight. “You did not make this.”

“Not the donuts,” Cas clarifies with a smile, pulling out a chair. “Sit, please.”

Cautiously, Dean sets his box of brownies on the table and falls into the seat. Rather than the seat across from him, Cas sits next to Dean.

“This looks great, Cas,” Dean says as he gathers some food on his plate gingerly. He makes sure to smile big when he puts two glazed donuts on his plate. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

“I rarely have company,” is Castiel’s explanation. He cocks his head, and goes on. “My family moved to the north east while I was a junior in college. That is where I’m originally from.”

“Where?”

“New Jersey,” he says, and Dean’s brows raise. That is north, much farther north than he’s been in a couple years. “But my father moved to Louisville for business when I was four, so I have lived here nearly all my life.”

“It’s hard to wrap my head around staying in one place that long,” Dean says, taking a large bite of turkey—delicious and juicy, smothered in cranberry sauce. “I mean, I’ve been here almost three weeks. I haven’t chilled out that long in…two years?”

Castiel nods thoughtfully. “So this is more like a vacation, then?”

He shrugs in reply. “I never get a break. It’s always case-research-case.” Dean smiles. “This is nice though.”

“I’m glad you stayed,” Cas murmurs warmly as he chews. Their eyes flick up to meet each other’s at the same time, and the seconds they stay locked make Dean’s heart take off in his chest.

“Er, me too. You were a lot of help and, man, your cooking is badass.”

“Thank you. I have one more dish, so save some room for dessert.”

Several minutes later, the smell of cherries wafts into Dean's nose. He sniffs, which prompts Cas to rise from his seat, smoothing the wrinkles in his khakis as he does. “The pie is ready.”

“Did you just say pie?” Dean deadpans.

Castiel doesn’t reply, except to usher to the oven quickly. He slips on a mit and widens the door, the smell intensifying as Dean inhales once more. Cas delivers the pan to the table and Dean can almost cry at the beauty of the pie—brown and crisp and overflowing with what looks like cherry filling and actual cherries.

“You made pie.”

“Do you like pie?” Cas asks and Dean thinks it’s the stupidest question asked in the history of ever.

“Cut me a slice and I’ll show you.”

—

Dean crouches before the old, seldom-used and dusty fireplace situated on the main wall of Cas’s living room. There’s a box of matches on the equally dusty mantle, but they are limp and too bendy to even attempt striking them. Lighter it is, then; he fumbles into the pocket of his pants before remembering that he lost his lighter while dealing with the OCD ghost with Daddy issues.

“Got any lighters?”

Cas’s voice is barely heard over the running of water (he requested that Dean light a fire while he cleaned the kitchen, which Dean tentatively agreed to because, hell, even he knew the polite thing to do would be to help clean). “Over in this drawer by the sink—I apologize, my hands are wet.”

“No problem,” Dean says nonchalantly as he strides next to Cas, who directs him with a directed movement of his elbow to his left. In the drawer are an assortment of outdoor cooking utensils, and Dean has the sudden desire to explore the possibility that Cas might actually have a grill. Dean fucking loves grilling out—he goes back to the days when he’d save up some money from whatever place would hire a twelve year old with a fake work permit, buy some hotdogs and buns and take Sam to the park. One place they lived had a few public grills, only requiring charcoal (sometimes Dean could squeeze by with the crumbled pieces left over from the laster user).

Dean likes grills, and really wants to see Cas’s, if he has one.

The question is about to form on his lips, but falls short when his fingers touch the cold metal of a lighter—exactly what he was looking for. He squeezes it in his palm. “Haha—gotcha!” he declares triumphantly. He pauses and blinks when he looks at the lighter closer. It may be a generic Zippo, but the trigger sticks and it’s got a scratch up the side that is eerily familiar. “Wait—is this mine?”

Cas suddenly seems very panicked as he shuts off the water and wipes his palm on his pants. “Yes,” he answers quietly. “I—I found it, shortly after...you know. I never knew if I would see you again. You can have it back.”

“It’s not a big deal,” Dean laughs and claps him on the shoulder. “It was, like, two bucks. And I want you to keep it…something to remember me by.”

“Okay,” Cas murmurs, his cheeks reddening. The flush of color to his tanned cheeks makes Dean’s stomach flip.

Dean smiles. “Well, it’ll take me just a sec to light the fire. Come on.” He pushes Cas by his shoulder toward the living room. Dean kneels in front of the fire again and lights a piece of paper easily with the flick of his lighter, and then nestles it between two logs. It doesn’t take long for the wood to catch, the sweet and vivid scent of burning wood filling the room as Dean puts his palms close to the flames.

“Careful,” says Cas, his voice light and barely audible.

It makes Dean smirk, the worried tone the words carry. “You worried about me burning myself?”

“Yes.”

Dean elbows him. “You’re kind of adorable when you worry. But don’t do it often, you’ll get wrinkles.”

Thoughtful, Cas runs a hand over his own face, tracing the crows feet already branching from his eyes. “I will keep that in mind.”

Dean licks his lips as he stares at Cas for a longer amount of time than he should. In fact, he ought to be staring into the flames like Cas is doing, but watching the light play across his face makes his chest thump and throb contentedly.

Contentment—it’s something he hasn’t felt in a long time. Not since Cassie, maybe. But this is a whole new level of weird. He barely knows this guy and, yet, spent hours with him—hours filled with conversations beyond the realm of his normal understanding of ‘honest’. He wasn’t the type of guy to pour his heart and soul out, but Cas made conversation easy. He listened and acknowledged the window to Dean’s past that he offered several times, without judgement.

It’s a feeling that Dean does not want to let go. And when Dean doesn’t want to lose something, he’ll go to great lengths to make sure he doesn’t.

The warmness fluttering in his chest at an embarrassingly high temperature cooled immediately when Dean hears the shrill of his phone—his personal phone, not the one dedicated to his Agent Greer pseudonym. Dean does not realize how close he was to Cas until their elbows clunk together as he fumbles for his phone. He mutters a “sorry” before flipping it open.

“Hello?” he answers, annoyance tinging his voice.

“Dean,” a voice comes through the receiver muffled. “Can you hear me?”

He freezes, eyes opening wider and staring into the fireplace. “S—Sam?” He blinks.

“Yeah it’s me,” Sam answers. “It’s been a while.”

Hell, it’s probably been months since Dean’s said two words to his brother. And never had Sam called him; Dean was halfway convinced that Sam silently wished that he would just stop calling. He made it pretty fucking clear that he didn’t want Dad or Dean in his life when he walked out the damn door.

It’s difficult to suppresses the anger, anger that’s been building for over three years but has been contained, but Dean manages. After all, this is Sam—his baby brother. He misses Sam more than he misses breathing while underwater. He swallows and nods for nothing. “It’s good to hear your voice, Sammy.”

Dean hears an audible exhale at the sound of his monicker. “Yeah, same here—you sound more gruff.”

“Heh,” Dean sniffs. “My allergies suck, is all.” His voice had taken a rougher grind over the years, but his swollen sinuses aren't helping much.

“I just—I wanted to call and tell you that, you know, I miss you,” Sam gushes. “I know the last time we saw each other it wasn’t on the best of terms—“

“You were walking out the door screaming,” Dean amends bitterly. “You didn’t even give me a chance.”

“To tell me to stay? To drown in booze and hunt until I get hunted and die? No, Dean, I don’t want that. That’s your life.”

Dean feels a sting in his chest; it feels like all kinds of betrayal and hurt and anger. He feels that having it out with his brother over the phone is not really appropriate to be done around Cas, so Dean stands and walks just into the kitchen, sits at the breakfast table. “You think that’s what I wanted for you, Sam? Well it ain’t,” he grounds out, phone presses nearly to his lips. “I wanted—want—everything for you. I gave up a whole ton of shit so you’d have the chance to get out, and you repay me by screaming in my face like I was Dad. Excuse me for wanting a proper goodbye.”

A long silence falls between them, which Dean fills with a cough as he turns back toward the living room. He’s slightly startled when he sees Cas leaning in the doorframe, a concerned expression. He mouths, ‘are you okay?’ and Dean nods. He’s okay. There must have been estrogen injected in that turkey or something because Dean can feel a tightness in his chest that’s close to deep, undying pain.

“I had no idea you felt that way,” Sam finally says. “I’m sorry, Dean. I didn’t call to fight. I called because—you’re my brother. And—and if you’re not too super pissed at me—”

“I am,” Dean cuts in. This isn’t a band-aid-it-and-run type of issue.

“Fine,” Sam concedes. “If there’s a chance you’ll be not-so-pissed in, let’s say, seven months…will you be my Best Man?”

Dean’s initial reaction is to cover the mouthpiece of his cell phone and laugh. He laughs so hard his stomach feels sore, feet slamming against the floor. Disbelief, shock, amazement—confusion. Once he’s collected himself, several seconds later, he pulls the phone back to his face. “You’re getting married?” he asks breathlessly.

“Yeah.”

The idea of a Winchester getting the white picket fence rolls around in Dean’s mind. It’s never something he’s wanted, but it’s something Sam definitely deserves. More than any person on the fucking planet, Sammy deserves a good, faithful woman who can cook and clean for him and love him when Dean can’t or is just too emotionally constipated to swallow his pride. He needs a dog too. An ugly one, to make his face look pretty.

“I’m so fucking happy for you man,” Dean finally says. “I’ll be your Best Man. Fuck, I’ll be the Maid of Freaking Honor if I need to. I wouldn’t miss it.”

That makes Sam laugh. “Jesus, I was so chicken shit about calling you. You need to visit, next time you’re in California. Jess wants to meet you.”

“Jess? That’s the lucky girl, huh?”

“I’m the lucky one.” Dean’s sure if he could see Sam’s face, he’d be all starry-eyed. “She’s amazing, Dean. You’ll love her. Just don’t hit on her, you whore.”

“Hey! Bitch, I’m not the whore that I once was,” Dean objects.

“Does that mean you got your lady-friend diet down to once a week?”

Dean reddens, suddenly very aware of how close Cas actually was to him. Could he hear Sam’s dinosaur voice on the phone? He hunches forward in the other direction. “No,” he replies shortly.

“Whoa Whoa, that no sounded like the ‘I-don’t-want-to-talk-about-this-because-of-my-feelings’ no.”

“You got that right. Listen, I’m kind of in the middle of—something, so I gotta go,” he mutters to Sam. “Listen—happy Thanksgiving. Call me whenever, and we can talk some more.”

“I will,” Sam promises. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

After Dean hangs up, Castiel sits down next to him, quiet but watchful.

“My brother,” Dean explains, looking beside him. Cas’s eyes noticeably flicker down to his lips and then back to his eyes. Dean feels a heat brush his chest when he realizes the implications of that. “He’s getting married.”

“That is wonderful,” Castiel murmurs. “Are you happy for him?”

“Hell yeah,” he breathes. “Someone deserves that life. If anyone’s gonna get it, it should be him.”

Cas’s brows pull together. “What do you mean by ‘that life’?”

“You know… white picket fence and shit. Two and a half kids and a golden retriever.” Dean shrugs. “Cherry pie life.”

“And you think you do not deserve that?”

Dean considers the question, chewing his bottom lip carefully before reacting. “No. It’s not about deserving. I’ve kinda always wondered what it would be like, to have the family I never had as a kid—and I realized that I don’t want it. I’ve always had this thing for being on the road. Besides, my whole life revolves around protecting people. There’s only so many things to hunt in one town and I know that leaving is inevitable—“

Dean rambling is cut off by the sudden presence of warmth and fire singing his lips as two foreign ones consume them. He hums in intervals, pulling back instinctively as he mind tries to grasp what is happening to his body. It’s a kiss, he registers numbly, and that thought immediately makes him more pliable. He leans in, tilts his neck forward, and kisses right back.

For whatever reason, Dean’s little fantasy is coming true, though he has no idea why. He has little self-control in this respect and feels no need to question it. Instead, he drags his limp hands up his legs and crosses them over to Cas’s—their knees touch as Cas leans in his chair to kiss Dean. His fingertips envelop the khaki material, soft and pliant when Dean squeezes both thighs and feels the muscles flex beneath.

Unexpectedly, Dean’s touch causes the kiss to break with a fucking whimper coming from Cas’s mouth. “Dean,” he breathes, or pants rather. “I know you will leave, but I don’t want you to. I’m sorry I kissed you.”

“Don’t be,” Dean huffs, trying to keep his voice strong but it wavers just like the rest of him. “I—I’ll be honest. I don’t want to leave, either. The only reason I’m still in the allergy infested town is because of you.”

Cas answers Dean’s confession with another kiss, this time much less proper and more sloppy. Somehow, Cas ends up straddling Dean in his chair. The weight up their hips flush against each other is enough for his dick to come to full attention. Cas kisses his sway down Dean’s face, to his neck, and scrapes his teeth at it as he sucks. And then Dean is doing it again—whimpering like a teenage girl when he feels the bruise forming, sure to leave a mark for days to come. The thought makes him even harder, even more desperate as his messy hands fumble to unbutton Cas’s shirt.

Once it’s finally unbuttoned, Dean struggles to unknot the tie still bound around Cas’s neck. His fingers are too shaky for accuracy, because holy shit the stubble on Cas’s cheeks scrape at his skin while Cas kisses and licks and sucks across the thin, sensitive skin of his collarbone. He thinks he whispers a plea, help, he thinks it was, and Cas removes his hands from Dean’s waist to undo his tie. Their fingers brush together, and Dean breathes heavily when Cas’s shirt is finally off.

He has to look, even though the angle is difficult. Cas may be smaller, but he’s just as toned as Dean. His jeans barely mask the jutting hip bones, and his stomach is nearly flat except for a small pudge just above the beltline. Dean has the same strip of fat, and has tried to work it off for years to no avail. On Cas though, Dean discovers that he wants nothing more than to suck on it, taste the skin and maybe just lay his head there for a moment as he fists Cas’s dick in his hand—

He gasps as the thought crosses his mind just as Cas’s hips arch into his own. He’s about to come in his pants like a teenager, so he grabs Cas and pushes him away.

Cas tilts his head, licking his lips as his eyebrows furrow.

“Too fast,” Dean explains, gasping for air. “I don’t—I don’t want this to end yet.” His voice wavers at the end, because the words have a dual meaning. He doesn’t want their first time to be sloppy and meaningless in a kitchen chair. He wants to do things to Cas, make him feel as damned as Dean feels now.

“Bed?” Cas asks, climbing from Dean’s lap. Dean nods in agreement.

Dean’s surprised when their finger intertwine so innocently as Cas leads him to the bedroom. They’re warm and firm, grounding him, but making him feel a bit higher with every step they take. In no time at all, Cas is laying back on the bed and pulling Dean on top of him. He smirks, gratified that Cas is going to let him take the lead after all that torturous sucking he did in the dining room.

The first thing Dean does is cup Cas through his jeans. He gasps, arching his hips from the bed. His blue eyes widen and his body writhes as if he was struck by lightning. He unbuttons Cas’s pants and slowly pulls them down, boxers and all. He’s not that patient, so the sooner they’re both naked the better. While Dean’s at it, he pulls off his shirt, his own jeans, leaving him just in boxers. And they’re shamelessly tented.

“Dean,” Cas hisses when the cool air hits his dick. Dean watches, mesmerized, as it twitches, like it’s asking for him. Instead of granting it the attention his dick desperately wants, Dean leans over Cas’s body and presses their lips together. It’s so sweet at first, Cas cupping both of his cheeks as the kiss deepens. He can taste a little coffee, a little sugar, and Dean can't help but moan right into Cas's mouth.

Dean isn’t used to this tender and slow sex, it's too vulnerable, so he has to roughen it up. Keep it in his comfort zone. He does this by wrapping his legs around Cas’s abdomen and moving his mouth to the side of Cas’s neck. _Jesus,_ he tastes like salt and sweat and so bitterly fuckable. Cas squirms, so he bites, softly, and Cas makes a noise that goes straight to his dick and he has to move. As he ruts his own hips, his fingers twerk Cas’s nipples—damn they’re pebbled and hard.

“Please take off your boxers,” Cas breathes, desperation tinging the forced words. “I need you—need you on me.”

Dean chuckles against his neck. “Mhm, tell me what you want, tell me how you want me...”

Cas groans, obviously annoyed that he has to explain how he needs it when he’s obviously so frustrated. He squirms and rolls his hips. “I—I want your cock, right up against mine...” he trails off. “I can feel you, Dean, you’re so hard. I know you want it...take it.”

“Fuck,” Dean curses and can’t help but comply. That was completely and totally unfair, that voice saying those things. Like this, Dean can totally forget who they are—Cas, a librarian; Dean, a hunter—and just pretend that Cas is a sex god and Dean needs him. Shit, he actually _needs_ this.

He scoots down, aligning his cock with Cas’s even though he’s still in his boxers. Cas whimpers, and his nails dig into Dean’s arms. “Yes, yes, yes,” Cas huffs, fingers quickly going to Dean’s ass. Dean gasps when those fingers run up the cleft—holy  _shit_ he hasn't had it up the ass in years and suddenly it's the best idea he's had. Everr. But before he can vocalize how _awesome_ that would be, Cas whimpers and squeezes Dean's ass, into him, as he arches up. “Please, please move. Close.”

Dean is thrusting against him with no relent, sweat dripping from his forehead as he watches Cas’s cock thrusts between his legs, against the wet bulge in his boxers. “Yeah...yeah, me too,” he whispers, quietly amazed and drowning just from _this_ , and leans down to press a kiss to Cas’s lips. Jesus they’re weak and swollen, and the kiss is almost all tongue. Dean’s holding back, eyes screwed shut as he waits until Cas is close to the edge. With women, he usually doesn’t mind coming first, but for some reason he doesn’t want to do this alone. He’s been alone so long—

Cas breaks the kiss and pulls Dean’s head into the crook of his neck, so his lips are on Dean’s ear. “Come,” he whispers, like gravel and silk and sex wrapped into one singular word. It’s all the permission Dean needs to explode in his boxers and shove his hips into Cas’s. Jesus Christ, then he feels Cas’s seed spill over both of their chests and their cries become a harmonious static of relief and pleasure and need.

After they collapse against each other, sticky and hot and messy, Dean peels off his ruined boxers and uses the dry areas to clean them both. Cas looks ruined, hair sticking up and sweat gleaming across his forehead. For some reason Dean wants to kiss him awake, but lets him rest. Still, he cannot resist planting one soft kiss to his temple.

“Stay,” Cas whispers, maybe awake, maybe not. Dean doesn’t have to ask what he means.

Staying means staying the night, curled up against Cas naked, but not sexual anymore. Their bodies reach a comfortable homeostasis when they simply lie next to each other. Their touches are innocent, their kisses sweet.

Staying means that Dean eventually and permanently checks out of his hotel.

Staying means that Cas empties a drawer, just for him.

—

Dean likes the smell of new, freshly printed pages. Of all the tasks Cas assigns him in the coming weeks—Dean insists that he’s not gonna shack up with a guy for free, and apparently the library had a job opening—he likes shelving the new arrivals. Most of them are these nasty ass teen romances, vampires and werewolves that are nothing like the real deal splayed across the paper sleeves. But they smell nice, Dean discovers when he idly thumbs through the pages, fast, and inhales like some sharpie-sniffing 8th grader.

“You’re job is not to smell the books Dean. You’ll never finish.” Dean turns halfway to look down the aisle. At the very end Cas stands with his arms crossed, a stance that correlates with that whole bitchy-librarian. He even has his reading glasses on, thick framed, and Dean feels like his life has become a walking talking cliche.

A cliche that makes his dick twitch when Cas raises one brow.

“Ever heard of that saying, ‘stop and smell the roses’?” Dean replies with a curving, teasing smile.

“There are no roses in those pages.” Cas freaking saunters toward him, arms still crossed tightly. “If you finish early, we can go home early.”

Instinctively, Dean’s train of thought stumbles upon the thought of attributing the word home to Cas’s house. Calling anywhere home was always a stretch, since he’s only lived in places as much as two months at a time. Yet he’s found that it’s easier to settle here, in this fucking small town that doesn’t even have a Biggersons, than anywhere. In his life. It’s hard to ignore how extremely uncharacteristic it is that Dean could drop his whole life for a guy and they don’t even fuck.

He’s unaccustomed to the idea, abstract and incomprehensible, but Cas is home.

The act—or Cas’s resolve to keep up the facade, rather—is wavering. Dean barely sees his lips twitch with a smile.

“Mhm, that sounds nice,” Dean murmurs and slides the books slowly onto his shelf. He’s making it a show, the stretch of his arms—covered by a sweater that’s honestly too small (borrowed from Cas, of course)—and the wiggling of his fingers. He knows it does things to Cas, makes him hot.

Christ knows Dean would love nothing more than to pin that buttoned-up, khaki wearing prude against the shelf and just go to town—but it’s never felt like the right time. At least not since their first time. They’ve messed around since then, but for some reason they just get hung up at second base. One of them falls asleep, while the other has to go jack off in the background. It’s probably the strangest relationship Dean’s ever had.

Cas pushes his glasses back up his nose, resolve breaking as he stutters. “I—uh—you just got a few left, don’t you?” He licks his lips and flicks his eyes down to the cart at Dean’s side.

“Eh,” Dean says and shrugs. The cart is pretty damn full. “Sure.”

“You can finish it tomorrow,” Cas decides. “I’m starving for some coffee.”

Dean scoffs. There is a Starbucks a couple exits up that Cas enjoys frequenting, but that shit is expensive. “We’re going to the gas station, not Hippyville.”

“I resent that. Starbucks is a great company and pays its employees well—”

Dean waves a hand, cutting him off. “I lie, steal, and kill monsters for a living.”

“Why must you remind me?” Cas sighs and leans forward, unexpectedly filling the space between them with a soft kiss that makes Dean’s lips tingle. The sensation goes to his stomach to his toes and compels him to gently cradle Cas’s neck as he opens his mouth. Their tongues play a soft, sharing dance before Cas moans softly—a sound that goes straight to Dean’s dick—and breaks it. “I don’t want gas station coffee, but I do know another place,” he murmurs.

Still slightly stunned by the concerning effects of one simple kiss, Dean fumbles to find words. “Uh—yeah?”

Castiel nods, complacent to let Dean hold on to his neck. Dean didn’t even notice until he laid his warm fingers over Dean’s. “I can drive.”

—

“Why am I even surprised?” Dean laughs, hot air billowing from his lips as the words hit the bitterly cold air. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket as he circles the thing—a fucking Smart Car—that’s just short of baby blue. It may even be the color of Cas’s eyes but that’s beside the point.

Cas is at the driver’s side, looking over the hood to glare at Dean. “I resent that.”

Dean just laughs and shakes his head as he squeezes into the compact car. His head brushes against the roof of it and he is suddenly grateful that he’s the short one in the family. “Let me guess—it gets good gas mileage, it’s good for the environment—“

“No,” Cas mutters. “I simply do not need a large care to compensate for any other areas I’m lacking in.”

“Are you implying that since I drive a big muscle car that I’m compensating for something?” Dean asks in pure disbelief.

He doesn’t even reply, simply chuckles as he turns the car on. It doesn’t roar or anything. Just wines.

Dean grimaces and looks out his window. “Believe me, pal, I’m not compensating for anything,” he mutters. Cas will that out soon enough.

—

In terms of hippy-ness, the little cafe Cas takes Dean to rates way higher than Starbucks. He decides any future coffee stops he will concede to at least name brand coffee over chalkboard mugs and music that belongs in the 1960s and needs to stay there.

He doesn’t say anything—well, he’s about to when Cas smiles at the barista warmly and picks up a couple newspapers, one national and one local, and begins to order drinks for the both of them. Dean just likes his coffee black, but Cas veers away from his usual latte and gets a Cappuccino.

Dean arches an eyebrow at the change in drink choice, and Cas shrugs. “I have felt quite spontaneous lately.”

“Oh,” Dean starts, a burst of hostility going to his lips. “That’s what this is, huh? Spontaneity?”

Cas takes it sternly. “Don’t be ridiculous.” They walk together and sit at a table with their drinks. “Just because I don’t move attractive men into my house frequently doesn’t mean I regret it. I don’t regret any of this.”

Dean regrets ever letting his insecurities show, because Cas is right. They are just taking this—whatever this is—very slow. He is careful not to mistake Cas’s reserved personality for being unaccepting; Dean thinks that the initial appeal of Cas was the fact he knew about the hunting and the impersonating-a-federal-agent and probably could infer that he was a liar and a thief, and still treated him right. Right, as in like something special.

He’s never felt special in his life.

Warmth fills his chest, because not only does Cas accept him, Cas is amazing. He cools Dean’s raging temper like a god could calm a tempest, and he’s so damn smart.

“I’m sorry for that, I didn’t really mean it,” Dean mutters apologetically and sips his coffee. “Just need a little caffeine to think straight, you know?”

Cas nods and smiles. “I know,” he assures Dean, reaching across the table to touch his hand. “It’s fine.”

Relief fills him and he nods to the newspaper resting below Cas’s forearm. “Can I read that while you read the other?” he asks.

Wordlessly, Cas slides him the newspaper.

Dean mindlessly flips through the pages, mostly just using it to shield his face from Cas. Because the past few weeks have really made him stare a lot, particularly at his nerdy librarian. Maybe creepiness is contagious, but he doesn’t want to suddenly be caught off guard when Cas starts staring back. And it is a matter of when, not if.

But as he parts the thin black and white paper, something catches his eye. The ink of a photograph is smudged, but he can still make out the mortician and a body bag, and the headline reading ‘Rabid animal attacks gain, another heart missing.’

Missing hearts can mean several things, and as he reads through the article, which describes the previous cases, and it seems to Dean this particular string of murders has a werewolf to blame.

The signs are clear and Dean has a pang of instinct that he’s been suppressing for a while flaring in his chest. Do something, every fiber of his being tells him, and he doesn’t want to listen. For the first time in his life he feels utterly content. Will this last—no, it won’t. Dean folds the paper down and stares at the table, at the photograph. The body count is five. If Dad knew that he was ignoring a case because he’s shacking up with some dude in Kentucky, he’d have a stroke. For multiple reasons, the most prevalent one being the fact Dean was bred to kill monsters and giving up the trade was as good as burning money. He’s an asset to the hunting community and Dad would never let him quit.

And he doesn’t want to. He can still smell the fire, hear the crackle of flames as they devoured his home—consumed his own mother. He cannot lay down his guns for someone, not until Mom has her justice. And that won’t happen until Dean’s saved every person he humanly can.

Cas probably wouldn’t have to know he’s leaving. A few nights laying by his side has taught Dean that he sleeps heavily.

“Dean, are you alright?”

Cas’s eyes prod Dean from his reverie. He looks concerned as he lays down his paper and reaches a hand across the table. Dean knows he’s going to touch his hand, so he quickly pulls back and tucks his hands between his thighs.

“Yeah,” he mumbles. “M’fine.”

He loses himself in a void state of mind, only aware of the soft playing of _Hey Jude_ throughout the cafe. The melody nearly makes him change his mind, but a glance down to the smeared black print—the morbid photograph—and the subliminal guilt washes down his throat along with the coffee.

—

Two in the morning, Dean pries himself from Cas’s arms and dresses himself.  All he hears are crickets outside, pestering him to stay. Or maybe that’s Jiminy Cricket. Heh, he suppresses a chuckle, reminding himself that there’s no need for his conscience to be bugging him. In fact, not going should make him feel guilty. His played similar thoughts over in his mind: Dad would most definitely say that Dean’s neglect of hunting would lead to people dying. But he’s never had anything to himself, never really had anyone that he could foresee still liking for a long period of time. Seldom does Dean even allow himself to make any kind of connection other than a one-night stand. Cas is different. Cas has that something special that he can’t quite put his finger on.

And he’s throwing it away.

Dean has his bag packed, but not all the way. He leaves some shirts and pants in the drawer Cas designated as his. It’s something for him to remember Dean by, he rationalizes. Dean definitely doesn’t imagine Cas wearing his flannel button downs in the mornings when he makes coffee, or when he's shelfing old musty books at the library.

He makes sure he has his hunting knife stowed inside his leather jacket, and then throws the bag’s strap over his shoulder and glances back toward the bed. He considers leaving a note, but it would make the break less clean. It’d be better if Cas just forgot that Dean was a person. Every other place Dean has been, he is merely a ghost. Lastly, Kentucky shouldn’t be any different. Instead, he gently lays his hand against Cas’s cheek and surprises himself by playing a tender kiss on his temple. He murmurs Dean’s name through the fog of sleep and his heart breaks. He didn’t even know that was possible anymore.

—

_Two weeks later..._

Three towns and half a dozen faceless, nameless women later, Dean's finally sobered up enough to see the numbers on his cell phone's key pad. He's in a darkened, musty hotel room, curtained pulled but he still tries to look out the window. Sunlight filters through, but Dean doesn't want to see it. For one, he hasn't seen daylight in a week; two, he's got a hell of a hangover; three, he doesn't deserve to feel it. He doesn't deserve to see any sun.

He dials slowly, squinting at the screen as he makes sure the correct numbers are on the screen. He calls the number, the one he knows by heart, and waits for his father to pick up. He's ready to be chewed out for being irresponsibile, for neglecting his duty. He is a  _disgrace_ of a son, Dean thinks morbidly as he slinks in his chair. But that isn't why he went through women like a chainsmoker goes through cigarettes. That has a special flavor of shame unto itself attached.

Before his blurred mind can fall down that slippery slope, his father's voice comes over the line. It's a voicemail, which is slightly worrisome. He should be expecting Dean's call by now, since Dean hasn't had any missed calls. He should have answered. Dean doesn't let any worry come over him, not yet, not until he calls another line.

And another. And another.

He's called every single one of John Winchester's cell phones, and even pulled out the list of his alias' numbers. None pick up. Some are disconnected, which would have only happened if their bills haven't been paid for. Dean swallows, and lets fear cross his thoughts. The next and last phone number he calls, the line picks up after two rings.

 _"Bobby Singer._ "

"Hey...Bobby? It's Dean Winchester," Dean murmured, his voice wrecked and dry from disuse. "Have you talked to Dad lately?"

 _"Can't say I have,"_ Bobby replies.  _"Why?_ "

"He hasn't been home in a few days. Hasn't paid some of his cell phone bills. Hasn't called me," Dean mumurs. He sighs, body straining as he hesistantly grasps the curtain fabric. With a swoop of his arm, the curtain parts and sun pours into the room. He's blinded, but forces himself to stair into the sky. It isn't a normal shade of blue, it's more like a salty ocean. It reminds him of donuts and coco on a cool autumn day. He hates the color, Dean thinks automatically, regretting opening the curtain and closing it again. "Something's happened to him." Dean wipes a hand across his face. "I think I need to go get Sam."

 _"Sam's at college,_ " Bobby reminds him. _"John Winchester is a resourceful man. He's probably just up to his ears in trouble, if I know him."_

"I don't care," Dean grits out, closing his eyes. "Standford be _damned_. I'm going to get Sam. Then we'll find Dad."

**Author's Note:**

> And so it begins...
> 
> I PROMISE a sequel, as soon as I get a wrangle on all my other evil plot bunnies.  
> The drafts is still in the works, so if you have any requests, leave them in the comments. By requests I mean cute/angsty/fluffy scenes. I will try my best to accommodate :)


End file.
